The Musings of the Afternoon
by gingerbritishgypsyelf
Summary: After finishing his revenge plot, Sweeney Todd goes to the seaside as Mrs. Lovett said they should. He is apathetic, but he begins to notice changes in Mrs. Lovett. Sweenett.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

_ Judge Turpin's body lay bloodied in a heap and Todd looked at the body of the woman he had just slain. She thought she had known him, after all. That he looked familiar. He used the handle of his now-closed razor to lift her bonnet. Mad old street woman…but there was something about her face…the wide-open eyes._

_ "Caroline," he muttered. His darling Lucy's cousin. She had visited a few times, adored Johanna and fawned over the two girls. When she left, half their savings left with her. He let the bonnet drop; good riddance to the thieving chit. _

_ "Toby?" _

_ Mrs. Lovett was calling her boy. He straightened, flicking the razor open. Another set of rubies. They walked through the sewers, found nothing. But…there. _

_ Sweeny spun, hearing the grating of metal on stone. He did not smile. The joys in killing had all come up to killing Turpin whom had killed his wife. Now…there was nothing to feel for. As the small boy climbed out of the grate, his back was to Todd. _

_ "Mr. Todd, please," Mrs. Lovett whispered, desperate to keep the little boy. _

_ "Hush." It was only one word, and with it, he seized the boy, clamping a hand over Toby's mouth. Under that hand, he drew the razor over the boy's throat, red spurting forth, warm red life. And he dropped the body._

_ From behind him there was a sort of whimper, like an animal. Mrs. Lovett lurched forward, fell to her knees, pulling Toby's body into her lap. Through her tears she rocked him back and forth, back and forth._

_ "Nothing's gonna harm you…not while I'm around…" The words were muffled through tears. Her face in anguish, she looked up at Sweeny Todd, his razor still dripping rubies._

_ "Mr. T. How could you?"_

_ "He knew."_

_ And he left her there in the cellar, rocking her boy's body back and forth, singing him his last lullaby._

_ Sweeny Todd wept alone in his room, for his wife whom had died of arsenic poisoning…for his daughter, run off with her savior sailor lad, and for himself. He had no one. _

It did not take long for them to clear out of the shop, sold for an approximately fair sum, and move away. They did not leave each other, but neither could really say why. By the sea they stayed, even had the seaside wedding Mrs. Lovett…Mrs. Todd…had dreamed of. Simple and sober, there were no guests but for the witnesses. And all three of their witnesses could have sworn that the bride was crying and that neither looked joyful enough to be marrying. They assumed that the woman was expecting. They were wrong, but it is what they assumed.

**This chapter is to lead into what happens after the wedding, in their new life together. Yes, Lucy really did die of arsenic poisoning. And they got away with the murder of the Judge. Movie-verse, because I haven't seen the play. And AU of course. Clearly. REVIEWS! IT MEANS YOU LOVE ME!**


	2. Noticing

Noticing

It was about three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon when Sweeny Todd began to notice his wife. Even in London, the city of sin and filth, he had rarely paid her much attention, and marrying her had changed nothing. Well…almost nothing. He had periodically tumbled her, almost against his will, (for he had never thought of the idea and it was never an agreement to do the thing, only the fact that he had not said no or stopped her that meant that the deed occurred,) when they had lived in London. Now they rarely slept at the same time, let alone in the same bed. Bothering himself to think about it, he realized that he hadn't touched her in over six months. The last time he had touched her, it was to keep her from falling as she climbed into the carriage with 'just married' painted on a piece of plywood dragging behind them. She hadn't been smiling. Neither had he.

Something inside the seaside little cottage was cooking; he could hear the sizzle, smell the grease. Funny, her cooking was actually more-than-decent, she had just never been able to afford the right ingredients until he and his human-meat had come along. Here by the seaside, they got along on his barbering the tourists and her occasional sale of pies. Being by the sea, they contained fish and sometimes potatoes or onions or both, but they sold well. She had a cart she sold them off, not a shop, though. And he had a stand. But it was a living.

He had never really noticed her before, to be honest. It had been the vendetta, and then the mourning, and then just…himself. Depression, he supposed, in his more lucid moments. But he couldn't remember ever looking at her, really looking at her, not once. His eyes had skimmed her body on a rare occasion or two, but it was only a passing glance, a half-scan. And the tumbles had always been her idea, not his. Not that he hadn't taken some small pleasure from them, he had. He had just never paid all that much attention. Because it wasn't important compared to his revenge, he had paid it…her…no notice.

Though he couldn't say what had brought him to notice her, it was like a stirring in his mind. Like his brain had been sleeping, turned off, and it was slowly waking back up, stretching out little by little. He noticed that she hadn't been…herself. Her bodice was laced properly. She barely looked at him, let alone spoke to him. There were no songs as she made pies, no sideways glances. No seductive biting of her full lower lip. She mostly just walked on the beach, or stood there, looking out into the waves.

He noticed that she always smelled like salt now, not like flour. She smelled salty and metallic, like the sea…like blood. And as he almost wondered why, his mind flashed back to his final kill.

_ "Mr. Todd, please." He could hear the desperation in her voice, in that frail little whisper. Hear how badly she wanted to keep Toby._

_ "Hush." _

_ His hand clamping over the boy's mouth. How soft his face was, still that of a child's, how Toby struggled only for a moment, opening his mouth to bite the hand that silenced him. And then…the cut. The lightning-quick blade sliding across his throat. Like slicing through butter, it was. How the boy struggled for a few moments before he went limp, his weight becoming dead. How his body hit the stone floor with a thud, an air of finality to the noise. Like he was a sack of potatoes. Like he was meat. Like he was headed for a pie-pan._

_ The whimper that tore from her throat. The sob. How she seemed to move so fast to his body, but at the same time, how her feet dragged on the stone. The lurching drop to her knees as she slowly pulled his heavy little body into her arms, his dark head resting in the crook of her elbow. How her tears and his blood ran onto her skirt. And the sobs, like her heart was breaking. _

_How could you, she asked him. And he answered simply. He could see her heart break in two; it was so painfully obvious in her expression. _

_The wavering song, the last lullaby. And how it cut off abruptly as he walked from the cellar, closing the door behind him. How his own heart was broken, and so hers didn't matter._

He wouldn't call the realization an acceptance of guilt, or an acceptance of any kind. Only a realization. A noticing that she wasn't herself. That she was…broken.

"Dinner." She called, but her voice lacked the life, the energy, the her-ness of her voice. He noticed that it was the one thing that she consistently said to him. How she didn't bother telling him to shed his shoes or to close the door. How she didn't look at him over the table, only wait until he had finished to clear up the dishes, to wash them and put them away in one of their two cupboards.

He noticed that he didn't speak to her either and wondered, as his mind began to awaken, to shed the grey curtains of mourning, if that was why she was silent.

"Dinner was good."

It was perhaps the only compliment he had ever given her. The old Mrs. Lovett…well he supposed she was Mrs. Todd now…would have said something roguish or flirtatious. She might have given him a flash of her breasts, an extra shake in her backside. She did none of these things, only gave a little nod as she walked out the door to watch the sea.

He noticed that something was changing in him. And that in her, the change had already occurred.

**Alrighty boys and girls! This is going to be a three or four-chapter fic, I think. So we'll see how everything goes with the next chapter and from there I'll decide where I want to go from there. I really wanted Mrs. Lovett and Sweeny to both end up happy in the end because their lives pretty much sucked. So this is me making an attempt. Reviews please? They are love.**


	3. Caring

Caring

It took about eleven days from his original noticing for Sweeny to make a secondary revelation. It was a Sunday and they had just returned from church. They attended church now, like a respectable couple. Sweeny didn't really listen, but Mrs. Lovett…Mrs. Todd…his wife…seemed to find something in it. After the priest had blessed the congregation and most everyone had left, she would kneel there for a while longer, sometimes light a candle, even drop a coin into the donation slot on the particularly bad days, the ones he noticed tears in her eyes as she bowed her head.

Today was one of those bad days. During the Mass, Sweeny watched her out of the corner of his eye, actually half-listening to the bible readings and the homily. She watched the priest, the readers, the enormous crucifix, all with a look of heartbroken desperation.

He wondered if she was looking to redeem herself, if she had seen some error in the things they had done. Or if it wasn't her own soul she sought redemption for, or if it was for that of the street wraith she had looked on nearly as a son. He recalled the homily two weeks ago had been on the fires of hell and the people who would end up there. His wife had sobbed quietly through it.

As he waited outside the church for her to appear, solemn and strange, so unlike herself, the secondary realization came to be. He cared that she was unhappy. It wasn't a declaration of love or anything, he didn't even know if he liked her, let alone loved her, but he did care that she was unhappy. And the idea that he cared about anything other than his now-achieved revenge and his late wife, was startling. Not that he didn't care about anyone…actually…he didn't care for much. Apathy was his general state of being, and the break of that apathy was a little disconcerting. It would have been frightening, but nothing really scared him anymore. When the worst has occurred, nothing is left to fear.

Mrs. Lo—Todd walked down the front steps of the church to where he was waiting. She walked towards him, but did not pause when she reached him, only kept walking down the lane towards their seaside house. He followed, and the irrational urge to ask her what was wrong overwhelmed him. But even if he did, what was he to call her? Mrs. Lovett? He could not; she was Mrs. Lovett no more. She was Mrs. Todd. But him calling her so would be odd, would it not? He had never really considered this before. Nellie? Was he to call her by her given name? He was her husband, he had the right, did he not? Though he could not remember why he had married her if neither of them had much cared what occurred after the judge's murder.

"Nellie?" He began, tentative. She flinched, the first reaction he had drawn from her since London. After the flinch, though, she seemed to tighten up her entire body, continuing the stiff walk, not looking back. He tried again, still uncertain.

"Nellie?"

Another flinch, this one barely noticeable, but she still did not turn. They were already halfway back to the house. Maybe if he just let her be, she would come around in her own time? Nonsense, she hadn't said a word since they'd been married. He thought about this as they walked, her slightly in front of him, practically ignoring his existence. Once they got back to the house, she disappeared. He climbed down the little path down the grassy bluff between the little cottage and the sea. He could hear her climbing down, but did not turn to look.

"Nellie."

She stiffened, stared out at the sea, refused to look at him. He could feel a flash of rage rise in him, a wild animal. The demon barber's temper spiked. He seized her shoulders, shook her.

"Look at me, damn you!"

She did, and her eyes were dark and empty, still a little wet from the tears she had shed during Mass.

"What do you want." Her voice was tired and dusty, each word had an air of finality, like it was the last word she hoped to speak.

The rage died as quickly as it had risen.

"Are you all right?" The words sounded wrong and awkward after the rage.

She did not answer, merely turned back to the ocean. And he wondered if this was his fault, and came to the immediate and paralyzing conclusion that it was, it had to be. There didn't seem to be words left in him, so he turned, climbed the bluff, went back to the house.

She came in long after he had gone to sleep, and sat in a kitchen chair, staring into nothingness, until dawn, when he found her, asleep, slumped over the chair. And unbidden, the words came to his mind.

_What have I done?_

**I know that neither Todd nor Mrs. Lovett was ever said to be religious, but if they're looking respectable, that's what the respectable folk do. And after 'try the priest' and all, how could I not have them attending a Catholic church with a priest? If you credit me with nothing else, do give me points for irony. REVIEWS if you please. This is chapter three and I'm sadly lacking. **


	4. Helping

Helping

He didn't speak to her further for almost a week, unsure what to say. Odd as it sounded, he missed the demon barber. He missed the rage highs and the apathetic lows. He missed having a purpose and not having to worry about having a wife. He missed having a wife he loved, his Lucy. And most of all, he missed the deep, constant ache he had once carried for his wife and child. It seemed somehow, inexplicably, he had began to heal. Grief faded to a dull, occasional ache, and the fact that he was once passionate about, he now only felt a vague sort of loss for, was disconcerting. It was very very close to being frightening.

She was clearly broken. He wasn't sure whether it was the loss of Toby or if the murders weighed on her. He didn't know what to do with a broken woman. He didn't know what to do with any woman, really. Lucy had been an angel, and a little voice in the back of his head muttered that she had been on a pedestal, but he did his best to ignore it. If she was a man, he would have merely gotten her drunk and let her rage about it. But as she was not a man and they were out of gin—he had checked—it seemed that another plan was in order. Or he could go buy more gin. Yes…more gin sounded like a better plan than prodding her until she either snapped and told him what the problem was, or she did something drastic. You could never really tell what women were going to do.

Sweeny Todd set off to the nearest gin shop, intent on getting his wife stone-cold drunk. Being near a port meant that gin could be imported quickly, and if it was smuggled, cheaply as well. There was a little purse of coins in his inner pocket and he strode out the front door and down the path towards the road. They were hidden behind several rolling hills, invisible from the road. He liked the privacy and even found himself wanting to hum a little tune as he walked our onto the cobbled road. Shrugging off the strange feeling of contentment which had come over him, having a purpose and all, he made his way to the gin shop and bought three bottles of the stuff. For one thing, Mrs. …Todd…could hold her liquor like no woman he had ever seen. For another, it wasn't as if he didn't plan on drinking as well. If she was getting drunk, so was he.

"Got a party comin' up, mate?" the shop owner inquired, face red and jolly, probably from gin.

Todd merely handed him the guineas and scooped the bottles into his arms, recalling that his wife shopped with a basket to avoid this awkward clutching of supplies. The bottles clinked together and the gin sloshed in them, wetly promising of an interesting evening. One of the bolder tourists jovially bellowed,

"Looks like you're in for a smashing evening, eh?" into Sweeny's face. He merely glared malevolently and continued walking. The tourist muttered something rude about him to his other tourist-y friends, but Todd didn't particularly care. He walked back into his cottage and set out a bottle on the counter as he slid two of the bottles into a cupboard, then picked the third up and added it to the cupboard. His wife was outside staring at the ocean, more than likely. He peeped out the back window. Yup. Her dark hair tossed in the wind and whitecaps were visible out past the breakers.

_She oughtn't be out in that sort of weather_, he found himself thinking. Shaking his head to clear that thought, he reminded himself that she had never had a problem doing what she liked, and left it at that. Seeing as he had nothing else to do, and darkness was beginning to fall, he cooked supper. She usually did the cooking, but he wanted to just hurry it up and get her inside. The sooner she was inside, the sooner they could get to drinking, and the sooner he could work out what was wrong and how to make it stop.

This didn't mean he loved her, he assured himself. It merely meant that the old Mrs. Lovett was more…productive…and also she cooked better than the new Mrs. Todd…and surely she got more work done when she wasn't looking out at the silly ocean all the time. Yes. That had to be it. The cooking and the work and being productive. And her silence was odd; he was supposed to be the brooding one. That was how it worked. He brooded, she talked. Everything was nice and balanced.

"Supper!" He bellowed out the back door, but his words were caught by the wind and flung into his face. Sighing, Sweeny headed down the bluff, fetching his wife. He strode across the sand as rain began to hit his face, bullet-like. It was going to storm.

"I've made supper." He half-shouted to be heard over the force of the next gust of wind, the one casting sea spray and sand into his face.

She turned and walked stiffly back towards their cottage, not saying a word. Todd raised his eyes to the grey sky, wondering if praying for his wife to get drunk was a sin or not.

**You know that as Barker he had Lucy on a pedestal and she was no trouble. So having to deal with Nellie's emotional problems is going to be a new one. And come now…wouldn't you all like to see what happens when she's drunk? I know I would! Reviewssss! They make me live!**


	5. Drinking

Drinking

Dinner seemed to last forever; though he practically inhaled the food off of his plate, Mrs. Todd ate with a slow but steady apathy. It was neither neat nor messy eating, nothing was slurped, but neither was she holding her fork daintily or using her napkin to catch some of the crumbs that tumbled from her mouth and onto her…oh my. Sweeny didn't _want_ to watch the crumbs that had slid onto the tops of her breasts, but he did, stopping only when he realized that he was practically ogling his wife's cleavage.

As soon as he realized what he was doing, he averted his eyes quickly, reminding himself of Lucy. But the thought of her golden hair didn't seem to block the thoughts. It was such a wispy memory, her hair. It was yellow, but was it curly? Straight? It was long, but did she like him to brush it for her? Did she perfume the ends? He could not remember. It wasn't right. He concentrated on not thinking at all about Mrs. Lovett, for his true wife was Lucy.

_No_, a nasty little voice in his head said. _Lucy was the wife of Benjamin Barker. You, Sweeny Todd, have no hold on her._

He tried to rid himself of the voice, imagined Johanna, his daughter. He could only recall the smell of a baby, a gurgling coo. No visual memories. What did Lucy smell like? Was she slender or curvy? Was her laugh a tinkle or a chuckle? Did he make her laugh? What about at night? Did she like to be held? Did she move a lot in her sleep? He could not remember, could not remember. And there was the clinking of a fork onto a plate as his wife lifted her glass, drinking the last of the water in it. The noise brought him back to reality. And for the first time in his life, not even realizing it was occurring, Sweeny Todd pushed thoughts of Lucy aside, in favor of Mrs. Lovett—Mrs. Todd…his wife.

"Drink?" He asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch above his usual monotone. She didn't seem to notice, but she didn't move either, so he pulled out the gin and filled her glass halfway with gin, then did the same with his glass, taking the dishes and stacking them in the sink. She looked at her glass only for a moment, studying it expressionlessly, before she took a swig, closing her eyes as the gin burned down her throat. He followed suit, taking a smaller sip. He didn't want to get too drunk before he could ask any questions.

He knew that she drank; the gin bottle's contents were too inconsistent for her to be only having a little each night. He only hoped that it wasn't so bad that she could stay sober for the whole bottle. He didn't think he could last that long.

When her first glass was empty, he re-filled it with clear, burning gin. And she took another swallow, her face beginning to lose the tight, expressionless look. Considering it had probably been four or five shots-worth in the glass so far, Sweeny estimated that the second glass would loosen her up…hopefully. He took another sip as she tossed back her head and drained the gin glass. That was…holy razors that was ten shots-worth of gin and she was still looking sober, though her face had dropped into a miserable expression. Sweeny sloshed a bit more gin into her glass and she gulped a swallow, quickly, hungrily. It was like she wanted to get drunk.

Thanking God, he took another sip of gin and looked up at his wife, who was beginning to look tipsy. Good. If it took around ten shots to get her tipsy, maybe five more would get her tongue good and loose. She took another gulping swallow.

Sweeny tried to remember how Benjamin Barker spoke to his wife. It was gentle, right? Women liked gentle tones. And so he would use one.

"Nellie," he began, and her head shot up, scowling as her eyes welled up with tears. She took another swig of gin.

"What right 'ave you to call me that, 'ay?" She shook her gin glass at him menacingly, letting the gin slosh about inside of it.

"We're married."

"Yeah? And what sort of 'usband 'ave you been, then?" The cockney accent was prominent and broad, she sounded like she ought to. And no matter how dreadfully annoying he had found it in the past, it was welcome now. He embraced the accent, her bold tone, she glass of gin she was practically threatening him with.

_Tell her what she wants to hear_, the voice of the demon barber, the one he thought had faded with Turpin, whispered into his ear. He had grown from a vengeful, rage-driven man to an apathetic, quiet one. The demon barber whispered advice into his ear again.

"I haven't been what you needed, Nellie." Her name felt strange on his lips after nearly a year and a half of 'Mrs. Lovett'. Making his voice smooth, the voice of the barber as he ushered clients into his chair, he continued. "You needed a man to look after you and I didn't do what I ought to. I'm sorry, Nell. I really am." That was good. Don't let her be blamed, take it all on yourself. Let her hear what she wishes to.

_Now slit her throat_, the demon barber hissed into his ear. _Slit it and spill her rubies. Spill them…_

Todd shook his head, ridding himself of the voice. Maybe he had laid it on too thick. But another swig of gin and she was nodded along with him.

"You 'aven't been there fo' me, Sweeny Todd. 'Aven't been a propa' 'usband or a propa' man for me, you 'aven't."

He shook his head, agreeing with her.

"Nellie, you've changed so much." His voice was back to its normal monotone, but he let the smooth words slip from between his lips. "What changed you?"

She took another swallow of gin, and was silent, studying her glass. He could tell she was at least a little drunk; her tone indicated that. But he didn't know what else.

_Wait_, the demon barber whispered, _Give her the time she needs to answer._

Her eyes, already full of tears, spilled over as she blinked her dark lashes. Her lower lip trembled and her chin tightened up, trying to hold back the tears and failing.

"Nothing's gonna harm you…not while I'm around," she whisper-sang, and then she was standing, slamming her gin glass onto the table.

"And you killed him, Mr. T!" She screamed, "You killed him! Killed him! Killed him! Killed him!" She punctuated each heartbroken shriek with a blow to his shoulder, hitting him as hard as she could. Tears had drenched her face and she was sobbing as she hit him again and again.

"Killed him! Killed him! Killed him! …killed him! …killed him. …killed him...killed…him…Mr. T…" she was sobbing too hard to continue, her hands moving up to cover her face as she bent over, still standing, trying to dissappear. He stood there, having stood when she did, and watched her cry, unsure of what to do. She was shaking with each sob, tears were dripping from her chin and onto the floor.

There was a queer tightness in his chest, almost a pain. He felt…he _felt_. Moreover, he felt sorry for her. Sorry that she was in pain. And he…he wanted to stop it. To stop her pain.

_Hold her._

This time it wasn't the demon barber, just a little knowledge. A memory, perhaps. He did not know. But if it made her better, put things back the way they ought to be, then it would be worth it. So Sweeny Todd pulled his wife into his arms and let her sob against his chest.

At first she struggled, hitting him as she sobbed, calling him horrible names. He stood there like a stone, taking the strikes to his chest without fighting back.

_She needs this_, he thought. And it seemed she did. After a while, her blows grew softer and softer and she stopped trying to fight him off.

When his legs grew tired and sore from holding her weight against him, he sat, pulling her into his lap as she snuffled quietly against his shirt, like a child who had just finished a tantrum. Eying the gin, Todd tossed it back, figuring it was the best way to alleviate the discomfort he felt, having another person so close to him. His mind flickered to Lucy, but Nellie gave a choked sort of sob and he absentmindedly ran a hand over her hair. He did not think of Lucy again.

"S'alright, darlin'," he murmured. "S'gonna be alright."

He could feel the gin burning his throat, warming his stomach, making his blood hum pleasantly. He did not drink like Nellie did. A few shots of gin was all it took these days. She sloshed more gin into her glass and drained it. She was beginning to sway a little, back and forth. Tears left her face soaked and more seemed to keep leaking from her eyes. She poured the last of the gin bottle into the glass and emptied it.

"I'm so tired…I just wan' I' all t' stop. Would you end it for me, Mista' T? With one o' them shinin' friends o' yours?"

She wanted him to…she wanted him to kill her. It was a stunning realization. She was asking him to end her life. He knew that she was not herself, but he hadn't thought that she was to this point, to being ready to die.

"Shhhh, Nell." He was not about to kill his wife, no matter how many times he had considered it when they lived in London. She was drunk; the empty gin bottle on the table was evidence of that. His own head was feeling a little swimmy. Well none of that, he decided. She wasn't about to spend the night alone if she was contemplating death. Who knows what she might do? He scooped her into his arms and walked back to his bedroom.

"Wha' are you doing, Mr. T?"

"Letting you rest, love."

His eyes were already drooping their lids low. He rarely slept as it was. Didn't feel the need, he supposed. But he set his wife on the bed; she swayed there like a ship out at sea.

"I don' wanna sleep, Mr. T."

"Shhh, Nell. You don't have to sleep. Just lay here with me, all right?" He slid off his shoes and set her on his bed, pulling the covers from under her. She didn't seem to mind; she removed her shoes and threw them over the bed and onto the floor.

"I need to fit too, love." He couldn't remember ever being a gentle drunk, but maybe the demon barber had taken all his fire. She moved over to give him room, pressing up away from him, against the wall.

He slid under the blankets and pulled them up over the pair of them. He could feel her heat from where he was lying, not far from her, but not close either. She was crying again and he moved closer, hugged her from behind, resting his chin on her head of auburn curls. Rolling over, she buried her face in his chest once more, sobbing 'Mr. T how could you?' over and over again. He didn't understand how she could both be furious with him and seeking comfort from him at the same time. Who knew? Women were complex little creatures.

_'S the gin talkin'_, the drunk barber in his head advised, _'S not yer fault_. But through the alcohol, he knew that it _was_ his fault. And the guilt was heavy as her tears soaked his shirtfront. When her tears were spent once more, he held her close, wanting her body's heat to warm him.

"Mr. Todd, I love you," she murmured, half-asleep and quite drunk. With slow and fumbling fingers, she pulled his tie off, undid the first button of his shirt, kissed his pale chest. Her lips were hot against his skin, her breath warm and moist, like the jungles of South America.

"Not now, Nell." Oddly enough, he didn't seem to notice that this didn't mean not ever, just that it meant not at this moment.

But her warm lips had already halted as her head grew heavier and heavier, finally dropping against his chest as she lost consciousness.

"That's a girl," he murmured. And he slowly drifted off, her heartbeat steadily thumping against his chest.

He did not dream of Lucy.

**Maybe not what you expected, but as I don't encounter many sad drunks, just the obnoxious sort, I did my best. There will be more chapters, as we've got to get Mrs. Lovett sorted, haven't we? She has to get to normal, right? And what about the budding Sweenett? More to come in the following chapters!**

**REVIEWS. I MEAN IT. I'M NOT WRITING MORE UNTIL I GET SOME REVIEWS. I WANT TO KNOW IF YOU LIKE IT/DON'T LIKE IT, HOW YOU THINK IT'S GOING. GO ON! REVIEW!**


	6. Waking

Waking

_The dawn is breaking,_

_The light shining through,_

_You're barely waking,_

_And I'm tangled up in you._

_**-Collide**__, Howie Day_

He woke up once in the middle of the night to find her shivering. Sleepily, without even thinking about it, he pulled her closer to him and covered them both with his blanket. When he woke again in the morning, it was a fuzzy memory, a half-dream, soon forgotten.

The sunlight was minimal; it was his room and he liked it dark and dim. His wife…his _wife_…was still sleeping next to him. His head ached slightly; not a hangover exactly, he hadn't drank enough gin for that, but the ache reminded him of _her_. And of her pain. And her loss. He wondered if she would forgive him. It surprised him that he actually cared if she forgave him, but not nearly as much as it would have a week before.

He wasn't sure if he could call her Nellie; it seemed too much too soon. His lips were used to saying 'Mrs. Lovett.'

Mrs. Lovett.

Mrs. Lovett.

Mrs. Lovett.

There was something inherently pleasant about her name; he liked saying it, tasting the letters on his tongue like the demon barber tasted the moment of fear before the kill. They were both pleasant, but in their own way. He lay there in the dark room, thinking about it. His wife was sprawled across the bed, her head and upper torso using his chest as a pillow, her legs and waist tangled in the bedcovers. She moved a lot in her sleep; it made sense, seeing as how she was…used to be…such an active person in the daytime. She gave a deep sigh and moved a little, one arm sliding across his chest to rest closer to her cheek. He shivered at the contact, and all at once came to the realization that she was touching him. A lot.

More than that, she was half-laying on top of him. And the oddest part…he didn't mind. He wasn't exactly encouraging the contact, he wouldn't ask her to do this, but it didn't faze him. He wondered if he was ill. Sweeney Todd, Demon Barber of Fleet Street, hated people, Mrs. Lovett included. He didn't like to feel any touch except Lucy's. And Lucy was dead. He paused, waiting for the agonizing stab of loss. It came, but as a sigh, mournful but no longer heartbroken. He was healing. Against his will, he was healing.

Mrs. Lovett…Mrs. Todd…Nellie…Nell. Yes. Nell. Not too childish, not too formal. Exactly right. Nell stirred again, a little more this time. She was near wakefulness and Sweeney realized that she would probably have a very bad hangover. This was important. He ought to do something about this. Looking down at her head on his chest, he reveled in the sort of innocence she had in sleep. Her mouth hung open a little, but she was so relaxed, so comfortable. She hadn't been this relaxed since London…since he killed Toby.

He killed Toby.

There was a stab of something now, sharp and painful.

_Guilt._

He couldn't remember the last time he felt guilty. All these new feelings washed over him and he felt as though this part of him had been asleep for a long time, like a flower waiting for spring. And he did not wish to go back to sleep. He wanted…he did not know what it was he wanted but he wanted _something_.

Ever-so-carefully, he removed her head from his chest and even felt a little remorse when she was gone. He had forgotten how it could be pleasant to have another person warming you with their own body heat.

Making his way to the kitchen, he put the kettle on for tea. A few mugs of strong tea in the morning had always erased his hangovers, when coupled with an apple and some cheese. He didn't know why the combination worked, but he knew that it did. But they had neither apples nor cheese; the pantry was nearly bare.

It was shopping day today. No wonder. He leaned back to see if his wife had stirred yet; she hadn't. If he popped out very quickly and got apples and a little cheese, surely she would still be asleep. Or he hoped so anyhow. Pulling on his jacket, he closed the front door very softly and rushed towards the market.

In his bed, Mrs. Eleanor Todd rolled over a little into the warm space he had left in the bed. Her sleep was deep and sound, the best she had experienced in a long time. Her eyelids flickered as she slipped into dreams.

**REVIEWS PLEASE!**

**This has turned into a longer fic than I expected, but I will continue it because I want to know what happens just as much as you. All of you going back to college soon (along with me), best of luck this semester!**


	7. Morning

Morning (Mourning)

He would have liked to say the market was miserable, that he hated every moment of associating with people. But he didn't. He would have preferred less people, but as it was still fairly early in the morning, it wasn't yet crowded, just a little close. He had forgotten how to barter, hadn't done it since before Australia. If he hadn't gotten so good at listening over those long years, Sweeney Todd would have been swindled out of his mind. After watching a few women haggle over the best price for several items and saw the price they got for what he needed, the barber had no trouble smoothly haggling some cheese and apples, as well as buying some other things that his wife might need. Onions, potatoes, some flour, half of a dozen eggs, even a little meat. Seeing that the day had become lighter, he felt a little twinge of worry that Mrs. Todd had woken in his absence. Quietly and efficiently, he carried the groceries back to the little house by the sea. After setting down the groceries, he crept back to his room and found his wife sprawled across the bed. Her hair was everywhere and her mouth slightly open.

She was not an angel of the morning. She was not a goddess or a red red rose or a Juliet. But she was his.

As soon as the possessive pronoun entered his brain, he shook his head. Though in view of the law, she belonged to him, but she was still just…Mrs. Lovett…Mrs. Todd…Nellie…he didn't know anymore. He no longer hated her, he didn't think he even disliked her any longer. But he refused to make even mental claims upon her; she was not Lucy and no matter how much his heart had begun to heal, he clung ever-desperately to the scrap of Lucy's memory. Or rather to the idea of her yellow hair, seeing as how he could no longer recall anything else about her.

_And are you beautiful and pale,_

_With yellow hair, like her?_

He didn't recall how pale she was, only that she was all lightness, yellow hair and pale skin. He looked back to the woman sprawled ungracefully across his bed. She was beautiful in her own way, in a real way. She was touchable and human, not an angel to be admired from afar. In his gut there was a sudden urge to climb back into bed and lay beside her. He resisted, angry at himself for such emotions.

Closing the door, he walked back to the kitchen. Groceries needed putting away and breakfast would be appropriate. He was hungry. This was unsurprising; since leaving London he had found himself growing more human, less demon barber. He was hungry now, even tired. He grew bored occasionally and every once in a blue moon he felt a flash of happiness. Only for a moment, but it seemed that as the night fell for Mrs. Lovett…Mrs. Todd…that it rose for him. As he was beginning to walk in the light, it seemed to have been at her expense.

There. That guilt again, similar to the shock of bare feet on an ice-cold floor. He shuddered it off, like a horse shedding flies. Cracking eggs, Sweeney Todd mixed them with a fork in a little tin bowl. He realized that he didn't know if Mrs. Lovett liked eggs for breakfast. He tried to recall what she ate for breakfast, but she never seemed to eat much at all.

From his bedroom, he heard a soft little creak. Setting the bowl on the counter, he slid off his shoes and crept quickly back to his room. Mrs. Todd had rolled over again and her eyelids were fluttering open and shut, in the midst of waking up. He slipped back into bed beside her, studying her as she struggled to take in her surroundings. She gave a soft little moan and squeezed her eyes shut.

Old Mrs. Lovett would have complained about her head. This one just curled into a little ball and let out another little moan. Sweeney placed a cool hand on her forehead and she gave another little moan.

_Poor thing._

He did not regret the thought and instead stood up and put the kettle on in the kitchen, chopped the apple into pieces and sliced off a little cheese. He put it all onto a plate and brought it back to his room, where she lay, still bunched up in a ball, amongst his bedclothes.

"I got you breakfast." He suddenly felt like a bashful young man again, embarrassed about doing something kind. There was a general grumbling coming from Mrs. Lovett, but it was muffled by the blanket over her head.

"There's tea."

The mumble repeated itself, but a pale arm snaked out and patted around until she found the tray on his lap. One hand curled around the mug and she inched up a little in bed, pulling the mug under the blanket. There was a quiet slurp and the corner of his mouth twitched up, not a smile but rather a flicker of amusement. There were another few slurps, and a little moan, this one of relief.

"There's apples and cheese as well."

She grumbled loudly and there was another slurp. A pale hand emerged and felt around until she found an apple slice. Chewing noises were soft, and then the hand reemerged and found a piece of cheese. His mind drew an absurd parallel, comparing this feeding of his wife to feeding one of the exotic creatures in the sideshows. The image of Nellie Todd in a sideshow cage, badgering passerby was amusing enough for him to smile. She continued her slow eating of his offerings, and once she had finished, the empty cup of tea was held out shakily from the blanket cocoon on his bed. Accepting it, he returned to the kitchen, placed the dishes in the sink, returned to his wife's side.

"I'm making myself breakfast…are you still hungry?"

The covers moved about and the dark curls emerged, then her pale forehead, thin brows, brown eyes. She did not pull the blankets further, only looked around blearily until she made eye contact with him.

"What?"

"Would you like some eggs?" The eye contact was hard; he really wanted to look away. He didn't like this contact.

"No." She pulled the covers back over her head.

"Are you going to stay in my bed all day?"

What had possessed him to say that? His hand whipped out to cover him mouth as her body stiffened beneath the covers, suddenly on guard. It was very unlike him, even with a hint of innuendo that he hadn't meant to insert into the conversation.

She was silent and so was he. After a long pause, he stood.

"I'll go make breakfast."

He heard her shift under the blankets, settle again. The outline of her body lay stiffly and he felt a stab of regret for his comment—what was this emotion? First guilt, now regret. If he didn't know better, he would have thought he was developing emotions.

With a heavy breath that wanted to be a sigh, he returned to the kitchen, cooked his breakfast, and ate it in silence. It didn't taste as good with the sour aftertaste of regret in his mouth, but he finished every bite, half to prove to himself that he could.

After he had finished, put away the groceries, cleaned up, and paced around the kitchen, he returned to hid bedroom, a little timid, not wanting to hurt his wife. She lay in the same position he had left her in and he sat on the bed next to her prone form.

Neither of them said a word for a long time. But then, Sweeney felt a strange urge to speak and when he opened his mouth to make an awkward attempt at asking if his wife was all right, the words seemed to just come out, without so much as a please or thank you.

"I didn't know the boy meant so much to you."

The prone body on the bed twitched and he laid an awkward hand on her back.

"He was my boy." Her voice was half whimper and half whisper.

"I didn't know."

"Me lit'le boy. Lit'le Toby."

"I didn't know, I—"

"And you killed him." This part was a whisper, solemn and sad.

"I know."

"I loved him, Mr. Todd."

He knows the words that he ought to say, but they stick in his throat, drag like molasses. They won't come, jammed in his windpipe, tangled in his vocal cords, anchored to his tongue. It's worse than pulling teeth, pulling those words that he wants to say from his unyielding throat. But he does, and they explode in a sudden, surprisingly soft whisper.

"I'm sorry."

Another silence, this one longer and more painful than the first. She sits up, pulls the blanket from her face.

"I know, Mr. T." And she looks at him now. "But you can't bring him back."

**SORRY SORRY SORRY! I haven't written in forever and for that I apologize profusely. College. It really takes it out of you. Anywho, here's the latest chapter in the adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Todd. What do you think? Questions? Comments? REVIEWS ARE LIFE. Hope you enjoyed it.**


	8. Dawn

Dawn

_Another silence, this one longer and more painful than the first. She sits up, pulls the blanket from her face._

_"I know, Mr. T." And she looks at him now. "But you can't bring him back."_

The dawn was always her favorite part of the day, but it has already come and gone. He could not remember how he knew that she loves the dawn, but he did. The knowledge ought to bother him, but it did not. Neither of them said anything for a while as he thinks about what she said. It plays in his mind, over and over.

_You can't bring him back._

_ You can't bring him back._

_ You can't bring him back._

_ You can't bring him back._

Was this regret? He wasn't sure, but there was a clenching feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn't like. He wanted to say he was sorry again, but the more logical voice in his mind reminded him that he had said it already. It would be unreasonable to say it twice, wouldn't it? And yet he felt that he should. For a moment, it was like when he upset Lucy and all he wanted to do was say he was sorry over and over again. He brushed away the feeling like a fly or a speck of dust. Mrs. Todd was not Lucy. She may be his wife, but she was not Lucy. He did not apologize.

He stood and exited the room stiffly, whole body tense and his mind churning. His wife lay in his bed alone for a long while before she stood and moved to her room, climbed into her bed, and went to sleep. He stood ankle-deep in the surf as the tide slowly fell until his feet were dry and bare, the ocean had long since retreated to its safe bed.

After noon had come and gone, when the sunlight had gone orange and the shadows began to grow long, Sweeney Todd came back into himself. His mouth was dry and the ocean was beginning to lick at his toes again. The tide had come and gone already and was returning once more. His stomach rumbled, surprising both him and the seagull that had been scanning the beach for easy prey. He watched it fly away before he turned and walked back to his house.

Mrs. Todd was in the kitchen, cooking something. She looked up briefly as he came in, then went back to stirring the pot of something that bubbled warmly on the stove. It smelled delicious, and he didn't say so, but rather sniffed the air, nodded once, and went to his room. After he left, she turned back to the stove and continued stirring. The house was silent.

Dinner was also eaten in silence, no different from any other evening previous. She did the dishes. He sat out on the porch. As he watched the sun set, he listened to the clink of glass on glass and the sloshing of gin into a cup. He had sat out on the porch night after night and never really listened to it, how often there was a clink, a slosh. She drank at least four tumblers' worth before the final thud of glass on wood. She did not pick the gin bottle up again and after night had fallen and he came back inside, it sat there still, though she was not. Soft snores drifted from her open bedroom door. A lit candle sat on the bedside table and she lay across the bed, fully clothed and on top of the covers. Her shoes were still on.

With a sigh, he looked around, as though to check if anyone could see him, then glided forward and with an air of 'it needs to be done,' he removed her shoes, slipped her feet beneath the covers, and pulled the blankets over her legs. As he tugged them up to cover her torso, she jolted awake, her half-closed eyes glassy as she scanned the room and settled on him. She reached out a hand, ran it carefully over his chest, tracing the line of buttons from his throat all the way to his navel, then lower. She tugged at the base of his shirt, pulled out the tails and twisted them between her fingers, all silently. She looked up at him and her eyes were dark and hungry.

Uncertain, he leaned back a little, started to take a step away from her bed. She gripped his shirttail tighter and pulled him closer. Her silence made the action seem eerie rather than playful. Nervously, he licked his lips and curled his hand around his shirttail, just above her hand, and carefully began to pull it from her fingers. She let go suddenly and her fingers were hooked in the waistline of his trousers. She pulled him closer and he felt as though it was getting too warm in her room. It wasn't good that he was here. He ought to leave. She pulled him closer, her cool fingers against the warm skin of his waist, until she was kneeling on the bed facing him, standing unsteadily over her.

One hand stayed on his waist and the other seized his collar and pulled, slowly, down towards her. Her dark eyes swirled with things he did not understand, and when she opened her mouth, her hot breath, smelling of gin and cloves, was startling.

"I'm your friend too, Mr. Todd," she whispered. And in a moment, her lips were hot and on his cool ones. He did not know what to do. Her eyes held him there, against her mouth, as her fingers released his waist, began undoing the buttons of his shirt. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped. Her fingers burned patterns into the pale skin of his chest. She was so full of heat, the flame to his iciness. Her lips pulled from his and she kissed his collarbone. It occurred to him somewhere in his mind that she wasn't drunk, only emboldened by gin. He could get away…but his head was so far away, so unattached to his body. He had never been touched this way before; Lucy had been fairly uninterested in sex, only wanted her child and then once that was finished, she was more like a kitten to be petted and cuddled than a woman to be loved. As Mrs. Lovett…..Mrs. Todd's fingers finished his last button, she stopped kissing his collarbone and slid his shirt from his shoulders. His already-unbuttoned vest fell with it as the shirt dropped to the floor.

She pulled her hands back and scooted back on her bed. Like a sleepwalker, he followed her, slowly, clumsily, drunk on her warmth on his skin. He was on her bed on all fours, his face close to hers as she blinked her enormous brown eyes at him, slid a hot hand up his side and around to his back.

"Do you want something, Mr. Todd?" she whispered hoarsely, and he nodded, slowly, dumbfounded, as though he had never considered this option before. He did not know what to do with his hands.

"Take it."

Her hands guided his to her waist, and he ran his hands slowly, gingerly, up and down her sides, reveling in the fact that this was _his_; that this had always been here, hiding behind mourning and revenge and all his other useless desires. She leaned forward to kiss him again and he met her mouth, gently, softly. And suddenly, there was sharp pain, the taste of blood. Startled, he pulled back, put a hand to his mouth. His lower lip was bleeding and her eyes were dark and rubies sat on her lips, twinkled on her teeth.

"Pain is a funny thing, Mr. Todd."

The demon barber rose up in him and something like rage, something like lust, overcame him. He straddled her, pinned her to her bed, and pressed his mouth to hers, bit her lower lip until it bled. Two battling forces, they stared at each other, blood on their mouths, both panting with what was lust or anger, neither one of them knew.

She loosed one hand and yanked the waistline of his trousers, knocking him off balance so his whole body lay on top of hers. She was a fire, a furnace burning burning burning her heat into him. And he wanted her. Here and now he wanted her.

Crushing her into the mattress with his body, he pressed his lips to her collarbone, traced ice across her fiery throat, all around her mouth, never kissing her lips, tempting her to give in. She pressed her head back into the pillow, giving him free access to her throat, but she would not break, would not give.

As suddenly as he began, he stopped, drawing his face so close to hers that she could feel every fine hair on his cheeks. He stared into her wild, dark eyes and her tormented soul.

"Are you happy, Mr. Todd? Every day I tried to fix you, to make you better. And now you've broken me."

He did not know what to say. His lip sluggishly dripped blood onto her alabaster cheek. So much had gone on in the span of less than fifteen minutes that he was unsure of what he wanted, what he felt.

"Goodnight, Mr. Todd."

She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, ignoring him on the bed beside her. After a moment, he got up, and collected his shirt and vest from the floor. It wasn't until he was safely in his room that he realized he had never removed his shoes.

**This one was very sexually charged and I know I stopped it abruptly, but honestly, do you really want to get rid of all the drama in one go? One night won't fix everything, ladies and gents. Tell you what, give me some lovely REVIEWS and I'll give you more Todett love. Deal?**


	9. Afternoon Again

Afternoon Again

It was morning again when he woke, the blankets tangled around him and covered in sweat. His dreams had been full of her brown eyes tempting him farther and farther into a dark forest until he was thoroughly lost. From the little room with the tub and W.C. in it came the sound of retching. Shuddering for a moment, he got up and rubbed the grit from his eyes. His warm feet left little moons of steam on the wooden floor until the first few steps cooled them. He walked into the bathroom to find his wife retching into the porcelain bowl, her face damp with sweat.

He rushed forward, not giving it a second thought. As the retching paused and he took her hair in his hands and held it back from her face. Pulling a piece of twine from his pocket, he tied it away in a messy bun, rested his palm on her forehead. She was hot. Not her usual smoldering heat, but hot in a different way, like a furnace over-fueled. Her skin was tinged in green and her cheeks were pale.

"Here you are love, it's all right." His cool hands circled her neck, feeling the unnatural heat there too and she shivered, and then leaned over the pot again, dry-heaving as nothing came up. She coughed and a few tears leaked from her eyes.

"Let's get you back into bed, all right?" He didn't know where this was coming from; maybe the countless number of times she had looked after him. She nodded and tried to stand up on wobbling legs, but her knees buckled. How she had managed to make it to the bathroom was beyond him. Carefully, he lifted her hot little body into his arms and carried her back to her bedroom. Tossing the blankets back, he laid her on the sheets and covered her up. She had told him more than once that one had to 'sweat out' the fever. Laying there on the bed, she curled up on her side miserably and sweated, occasionally pausing to dry-heave into the bucket that Mr. Todd had brought for her. He got up only once during the first few hours to bring her a bucket and a glass of water. She slept little and restlessly, though her eyelids betrayed her exhaustion.

Her sickroom was silent for most of the day, until about the afternoon, when she began to shiver violently, teeth chattering, limbs shaking as she tried to keep warm. His hand on her forehead proved that she still ran a fever, but her skin was clammy and no matter the number of blankets he piled onto her bed, she could not seem to get warm. Seeing no other solution, he removed his shoes and vest, setting them on the chair at her bedside. Carefully, he slid underneath the covers and wrapped her in his arms. Her body was aflame, hot as it fought off whatever illness consumed her, but still she shivered, curling herself against him to try and soak up his body heat. Despite his icy hands, he was still human and gave off warmth. Pressing as much of herself against him as she could, she drank in his warmth as though he was a tall glass of water after a trek through the desert.

As time passed, her shivering lessened, though she did not let go of him, nor did he release the arms he had wrapped around her, keeping her warm. The dry-heaving had ceased, and her lips were cracked and dry. Her eyes remained glassy with fever.

"Water."

The request was a rasping whisper, trying to form words with a parched throat and her tongue paper-dry. Immediately, Mr. Todd sat up and helped her sit a little, held the glass to her lips, not allowing her to gulp the water. She would make herself sick that way, he knew this. He held the glass at an angle so she had to sip, not allowing her to upend the entire contents of the glass into her mouth. Though she fought for more water, he was firm, allowing her to sip at a gentle pace until the glass was empty. Rapidly putting something into her already-upset stomach would do no one any good. This was proven as she moaned softly, curling into herself as her stomach, regretting that she had drank the water. She did not throw up again, but instead shuddered in alternate fits of burning heat and shivering cold. When she was hot, he sat by her bedside, when she was cold he lay beside her, keeping her warm.

By the evening, her fever had broken and she fell into a light sleep, twitching at any sounds outside. It was only once she had settled into slumber that he dared leave her bedside to wolf down some buttered bread, cheese, and a few scraps of leftover chicken that Mrs. Todd had planned to leave out for the feral cat that frequented their porch at unholy hours of the night. There was some chicken, uncooked, in the icebox and he filled a kettle with water and set it to boil, rooting through the pantry to find ingredients to put in a soup for his ailing wife. There were three small potatoes and an onion in the corner bottom cupboard. Sighing, he headed back to the icebox and checked the rafters for dried vegetables and herbs that his wife had begun to hang in preparation of winter.

Within an hour, Mr. Todd had concocted a reasonably tasty-smelling soup. Draining a few ladles of broth, he poured the broth into an earthenware mug and carried it to his wife's room. Her eyes were open when he came in, though not glassy, a good sign.

"How're you feeling?" He mumbled, suddenly no longer confident. She was awake, and he had to answer for his tenderness, the things he had done to care for her.

"Not very well," she replied, her voice raspy from thirst and weak from exhaustion.

"There's broth here. It'll give you strength." He offered the mug like a child did to his mother, with a mixture of hope and nervousness.

Her trembling hands wrapped around the mug and she nearly spilled it. Carefully, he helped her raise it to her lips and sip, sip, sip. He only allowed her a little, ensuring that it didn't upset her stomach. After an hour of no vomiting, no negative effects from the broth, he allowed her to drink more. This continued a few times until haltingly, she tried to get up to relieve herself. Her legs wobbled, barely holding her. With an arm around her waist and his face red, Mr. Todd helped his wife to sit on the wooden seat of the porcelain bowl. She lifted her skirts and he averted his eyes. There was no comfortable way for this to be done. Once she had finished, he helped her stand and was dismayed to find that urine ran down her leg, spotting her nightdress. Her face was beet-red, and she looked at the floor, the little puddle of leftover urine from not being quite prepared to leave the toilet.

Neither one of them said anything for a moment, but in a gesture of uncharacteristic tenderness, Mr. Todd lifted his wife into the tub and fetched a rag, mopping the tiny puddle up, then wiping it over with hot water and a little soap as she sat in the tub. Once the floor was clean, he turned to his wife.

"Love, we need to get you cleaned up." It was gentle, it was sensitive, and she looked into his face, exactly the same and yet so radically different than the twisted mask of the demon barber, she nodded. Together, they removed her nightgown and he did his best to avert his eyes, respect her modesty. He ran the tub water until it was warm and filled it a little, shoving the little rubber stopper into the drain. She smelled of sweat and illness, and without recoiling, he wetted a cloth and rubbed it over a bar of soap, handing it to her. She cleaned herself most of that way, scrubbing in a manner both steady and a little weak. When she had finished, he re-wetted the cloth, rubbed more soap on it, and pulled her hair from her neck. In slow, careful circles, he washed her neck, her shoulders, her back. He was gentle, he was careful; he wondered to himself how he had gotten to this point. Seemingly out of nowhere, he had begun to feel something. The night before he had experienced lust, and now, this strange quiet caring, the silent tenderness puzzled him.

As he washed his wife's back, not asking for anything more than for her to allow him to help, he tried to remember Lucy and found with a twinge of regret that he could not remember ever having something like this with her. She had always been on a pedestal and he, mere mortal that he was, was not allowed to get closer than she permitted. He drained the tub and ran the tap into a bucket, which he used to wet his wife's hair. He was a barber and he knew exactly what to do. He saw the muscles of her back and shoulders relax as he massaged soap into her wet curls, rinsed them, and washed them again. He could not remember a time when he had particularly wanted to touch her hair, but as the silky curls (now clean and soapy) ran through his fingers, he regretted never doing so before.

Running his fingers through her long, dark locks, he combed out the knots and tangles. She tilted her head back, making it easier for him to comb through her hair, and as his fingers massaged her scalp, she gave a little hum of contentment. He lifted the bucket, tilting her head back as he poured the water over her head, using one hand to carefully rinse the soap from her hair. When it was all done, He helped her rinse off her body and then ran the tub full of water, pouring a little scented oil into the water from his barber's kit. She laid there, eyes half closed, silently relaxing in the tub as he fetched towels and a fresh nightgown and underclothes for her, no longer bothering to wonder why he was doing this. It needed to be done and so he took care of it.

Once the bathwater had cooled, her sweat-soaked bedclothes had been changed, the soup was hot again on the stove, and her fresh nightgown was ready for her, Mr. Todd pulled the plug of the claw-foot tub, a strange, eccentric addition to their little cottage. He dried her hair first, so it would not drip all over, getting the floor and her dry nightgown wet. Wrapping her in a towel, he turned away as she carefully dried herself. She needed help dressing, and with the same gentle sensitivity that he had looked after her and helped her wash, he carefully assisted her in getting her arms through the sleeves as his nimble fingers fastened the buttons for her.

Once she was dry, dressed, and wrapped in a blanket, he helped her to the kitchen table to sit down. There were already two bowls on the table and he ladled soup into them, fetching spoons and filling a glass with water for her. He drank nothing, merely watched her meekly eat her soup with a great show of restraint. He was certain that the only reason she could barely hold herself up was because she hadn't eaten anything all day and furthermore was probably lightheaded and dehydrated from the vomiting. Once she was finished with the soup, she sat back in her chair, sipping water as he helped himself to a second bowl of soup, keeping an eye on her.

"Are you still hungry?" he asked, but she shook her head with a soft smile, the first one he had seen in…he could 't actually remember the last time he recalled her smiling like this—as though she was happy.

**YAY ANOTHER CHAPTER! IF YOU ALL ARE REALLY REALLY GOOD, I'LL GIVE YOU ANOTHER THIS WEEKEND, SEEING AS I HAVE VERY LITTLE LIFE AND EVEN LESS INTEREST IN STUDYING. PLUS, A LOT OF MY FRIENDS ARE AWAY. SO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT AND **_**REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW**_**! HAPPY WEEKEND!**


	10. Growing

Growing

"_Are you still hungry?" he asked, but she shook her head with a soft smile, the first one he had seen in…he could 't actually remember the last time he recalled her smiling like this—as though she was happy. _

**ONE AND A HALF MONTHS LATER**

In the weeks that had passed, something grew between the couple. It was nothing big or immediately noticeable to the eye; they continued their tradition of silence, their ordinary routines, but Mr. Todd found himself seeing little things about his wife that he liked. Her hair, for one. Since he had washed it, he had a secret little longing to touch it again. He liked the way she hummed while she cleaned when she thought he wasn't listening. He liked the way she had a thousand different smiles, from the slow and soft smile that lingered around her lips when she was contented to the open-mouthed laughing smile. He was still quiet, still a little solemn and serious, but he could feel himself growing, changing. He had once been an empty flowerpot and now there was something sprouting from the once-barren earth of his heart. Though earlier in life it may have bothered the demon barber, this Sweeney Todd was not that man any longer. That man was driven by blood and revenge, and Sweeney was at a point where he no longer knew himself. He had lost everything long ago and it seemed that he was getting it back. He would never go back to being Benjamin Barker, but perhaps he could be wholly human again.

They had supper as usual. Tonight it was potatoes, onions, and cabbage. The weather was cooling down and it was already early October. The sea had turned from a royal blue to a roaring grey-brown. Their cottage, which had seemed so quaint and perfect, less than a quarter mile from the shore and in full view of the ocean, was becoming chillier. Mr. Todd had begun to patch up cracks in the walls and to stuff old newspapers between the outer and inner walls to insulate the place. Nellie had long since canned the fruits and vegetables of summer, hung the herbs in the rafters, braided leeks, peppers and onions. The potatoes were in a small root cellar, another of Mr. Todd's projects. It seemed that he was finding himself in making things. While beforehand he had taken lives, this building and fixing seemed to soothe his soul.

His pale fingers refused to callous, and he knew that the tourist season was over so there was little use in trimming hair in their little town; people cut their own hair, it was only the visitors that sought tonsorial parlors. Instead, he had taken to carving driftwood into little shapes. Not with his precious razors of course; he had an affiliation with knives of all sorts and procuring knives for carving was not a problem. His hands were a little less soft, but still remained uncalloused, still not the hands of a working man. He was thinking about the piece of driftwood he had found earlier that morning, now sitting on the back porch. He had noticed that like people, wood wanted to be something and that carving it was just helping it be in the shape it was meant to be. He thought that this particular piece was meant to be a dolphin, maybe a whale.

They ate in pleasant silence with the calm air of two people comfortable enough to not require a steady stream of chatter. He did the dishes and went out back to begin work on the piece of driftwood and she came out to sit on the steps beside him, her knitting needles clicking as she constructed a blanket square. The waves ebbed and flowed hypnotically, the soft shushing hiss of the ocean providing a soothing soundtrack to their evening activities. Per his personality, Mr. Todd was one hundred percent focused on what he was doing. The demon barber's drive had not waned, it was merely redirected.

He thought to himself that carving wood was not the same as cutting hair; he liked the snip of the scissors, the gentle swish of the razor, the smell of shaving cream and aftershave. Under his blade, the dorsal fin of the dolphin came into shape, and he thought of his shining silver friends. He shaved his own face every morning, but he missed his tonsorial parlor in London. Not the killing, mind you, but the shaving, trimming hair. He had seen enough blood in this lifetime. It was as he had this thought that his knife slipped, tearing a gash in the dolphin. An odd knot in the wood meant that this was never going to be a dolphin, that the wood wanted to be something else. With the gash there, torn open the way it was, he wasn't sure if it would be anything anymore. Disappointed, he set the half-finished dolphin on the porch, setting it next to the door and out of the way. There was another scrap of driftwood next to it, untouched by a knife, worn smooth by the sand and sea. He picked it up and turned it over and over in his hands, getting a feel for the wood.

It was worn, full of soft curves and with a sort of twist at the top. He stared silently at it, contemplating what it was going to be. Setting the knife down, he merely fiddled with it for a while, looking over every nuance. The sky grew dark and Mrs. Todd got up, returning with a candle. She set it between them silently and a smile flickered momentarily in one corner of his mouth until he turned his attention back to the wood. They sat that way for a while until Mrs. Todd gave a little gasp.

Her husband looked up immediately.

"What is it, Nell?" He hadn't meant to say that, but she didn't seem to notice, pointing at the sea. In the waves, little lights twinkled, like stars of the surf. He smiled; he had seen this before, on the ship that took him away so long ago, and the one that brought him back. Standing, he began to walk towards the ocean and she scrambled to her feet, following.

They drew closer and stood, letting the water run over their toes. The waves sparkled and glowed, farther out so that the lights died before they reached the shore. Smiling delightedly, Mrs. Todd leaned against her husband, wrapping an arm around his waist. Startled, he jumped a little, whipping his head to look at her. Serenely, she smiled back at him, and then returned her attention to the sea. He shrugged, wrapping an arm around her shoulders; it was more comfortable than standing there with his arm squished between their bodies. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she smiled, enchanted by the blue-glowing waves. As she watched the waves, he watched her. A light breeze blew a stray curl into her face and he was unable to stop himself from tucking it behind her ear once more, cool fingers resting for a moment on her warm cheek.

Startled by the unexpected touch, she turned to look at him, confused for a moment. But there was something in his eyes, the openness of his face at that moment. She had loved him for so long and it hardly seemed possible that he cared now. She was aware that her breathing had quickened, though surely he would think it was the magical light in the ocean. He nervously licked his lips and her eyes fastened themselves on them. Tearing her eyes away, she turned them back to the waves. In these months, this time spent with him, she had learned incredible patience. He was not ready to love her yet, and she had learned, though painfully, not to force him. She had learned to forgive him. And she had learned that she could be happy even without him with her all the time, that she did not need him to be happy, that she herself was enough.

It didn't take a lot of concentration to look at the waves instead; they were enchanting, alien and strange lights where there oughtn't be any. But she could feel him there, looking at her, his warm arm across her shoulders. His cool fingertips brushed another stray curl from her cheek and she leaned closer to him, nestling her body against his. There was so much that she wished could happen, but…there would always be something.

He brushed a curl from her cheek, felt her inhale sharply. And he realized with a great deal of surprise that he wanted something more. He wanted human touch, wanted to feel something more. Ever-so-carefully, he pulled his arm from her shoulders, stepped away. She let him pull away, and he recalled that in London she would have clung to him. She had not changed as much as mellowed; she was still undeniably the same Nellie Lovett he had known for all these years. Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face her, placed a gentle hand on her cheek. She looked up at him, her eyes cautious, a mixture of affection and uncertainty.

He licked his lips again, trying to find the words…she was staring at his mouth. Her eyes flicked up to his for a moment, and returned, as though drawn there, to his mouth. He swallowed as her hands tentatively slipped around his waist. Looking down at her, he noted she was biting her lower lip, a nervous habit of hers. Her lips were red, contrasting her pale skin. He drew a little closer, unable to think of anything but her. Her eyes were still locked on his mouth. Thoughts raced through his head like runaway carriages. Could he kiss her? Would she like it? Would he like it? Did her lips taste like cloves and gin, like they had that night weeks ago? Could she feel his heart beating? Did he want this, really want this?

He lowered his head a little, with the careful hesitancy of a surgeon or a man about to kiss a beautiful woman. Their faces were inches apart. He could smell her breath, like the apple she had eaten after dinner and a hint of caramelized onion. It was sweet and natural and very her. He licked his lips again, eyes locked on her mouth, lips slightly parted. No longer was there even a question of whether or not he wanted this. She pressed her body carefully against his.

His heart was racing, breath ragged, mind jumbled and confused and no longer really thinking. He could feel her heartbeat, like a rabbit's, racing against his chest. She smelled like flour and apples and herbs. Her curls were tousled from the breeze. There was a little smear of flour on her left cheek. Her eyes were searching his, looking for something he didn't know if he had for her. Her hands traced lines of fire up his sides and around his neck. Now was the moment, the key time. He had her here, wanted her closer, needed to feel her lips on his. He pulled her even closer to him, her body burning into him, her smell intoxicating in his nose. This was it. This had to be it. Taking a raggedy breath, Sweeney Todd licked his lips once more…

**Sorry everyone, but I'm going to cliff-hang this. I know, I know. It gives you the enormous desire to shoot me repeatedly in the foot until I write more, but I did it anyway. If you review, I can promise a supremely excellent next chapter. But you must review. It makes me a better writer and is an ego boost besides. IF YOU WANT ANOTHER CHAPTER, REVIEW ME!**


	11. Blooming

Blooming

_**Okay, this bit is from Mrs. Lovett's (Todd's) perspective and starts the second time he tucks the curl behind her ear. **_

She was holding her breath as his fingers caressed her cheek, tucking another curl behind her ear. Then, as suddenly, strangely, as he had given her that small piece of affection, he pulled away. She let her arm slip from his waist; she had waited for him before. She had been shouted at, threatened, abused, hurt, by the demon barber of Sweeney Todd, had been hurt by the silence of the post-London Sweeney Todd, and now, here on the beach, it seemed that the newly blooming Sweeney would hurt her too. She was so tired of being hurt, so tired of being unloved; unwanted, unseen and unheard…his hand was on her cheek. Startled and a little afraid of having her heart break once more, she looked at him. His face, generally a cool and emotionless mask, betrayed confusion and something like…affection. Love did not shine from those eyes, but something smaller, newer. She slipped her hands, slowly, cautiously, around his waist.

She met his eyes, but then, as though drawn there, her gaze trickled down to his lips. How long she had wanted to meet those lips; despite their occasional tumbles in London, he had never once kissed her. She had nearly forced herself on him, but his body had needs and she handled them, just as she handled his cooking, his laundry, and his general care—with a great deal of what she thought was love then, but now had come to realize was only a deep sense of infatuation. What was it that the good Father had said to them just the previous Sunday? It was all in Latin except for the homily anyhow, but then, he had explained it to them in words she understood.

_Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated,_

_it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury,_

_it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth._

_It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things._

_Love never fails. _

Those words, they meant something to her. In London, all she had wanted was Benjamin Barker. She had craved him all her life, a thing to be desired. When he had returned as Sweeney Todd, wifeless and a new man, she had thought it was her chance to have him for her own. But here, after months of silence, after grieving for her son, for her life, for the man she loved who could never love her in return, she came to a realization. She did not love him. She wanted him. And it was not the same thing. But now…as the weeks passed, as she watched the demon barber grow into something new, something like a man, she found that she could love him. Not that she did, for how could she love a man who she did not know? He did not even know himself yet. But here, with the magic of the waves and the way he was looking at her right now, like he wanted to kiss her…she felt a surge of affection.

Biting her lower lip, thinking of all of this while staring at his mouth, wondering, she felt his gaze on her. Would he make his move? Would he walk away? He licked his lips; she had long since noticed that he did that when he was unsure of what to say. Now, she felt that it was for a much different reason.

He dipped his head closer to hers and his face was so close, only inches away. She could feel her heart racing. Her knees felt weak. She pressed herself against him, carefully, to gain balance and to inhale his smell, like shaving cream and the wood he had just been whittling. His heartbeat was pounding against her breasts, crushed against his chest. She met his gaze, looking at him, trying to read his thoughts. Did he want this because he wanted the affection or because he wanted her? She knew that months ago she would have melted into him, throwing herself towards this scrap of affection. And she also knew herself better now. She knew that she wanted more than just a kiss and she knew that it was worth waiting for. Of all the questions she had in her mind, the biggest question was if he was ready for this or not.

He licked his lips again and her eyes flew to them. She could feel the tension, like a caged bird desperately beating away at the bars. Was he ready? Was she? Her thoughts were overwhelming and _he_ was overwhelming, the smell of him and the closeness and his heartbeat beating, beating, beating against her breast. She wanted this. She wanted it so bad that it hurt. But as much as she wanted him, as much as she wanted this, she wanted it to be his decision. She did not have to wait long.

As quickly as it had started, it ended. He traced the cheekbones or her face, the curve of her ear, and down to her chin. The contact ended there and he let go, stepped back. Bowing his head, he muttered something that sounded like,

"I'm sorry."

He walked back up the beach towards their house, leaving her there with the glittering blue waves. Somehow, they seemed less beautiful without him there.

About a week later, it happened again.

She was standing in the kitchen and had accidentally bumped a bottle of milk. It shattered, splashing milk everywhere. Dropping to her hands and knees with a sigh of exasperation, she snatched a rag from the counter and began mopping up the milk. He had just finished carving a little wooden goat; his carvings were getting better. This one actually looked like a goat. A little self-satisfied grin played over his features, and then he noticed her kneeling there. Perhaps it was the fact that he had just finished something he was working on, or maybe it was the fact that she smelled so good, or even that it reminded him of watching his mother wash the floors as a child. Whatever it as, he fetched another rag and began to help her clean up, mopping up the milk with his rag.

"Silly of me," Nellie muttered, and he smiled a bit, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. She noticed, smiling back.

"Just milk." It was the most he had said to her in a week; communication was not their strong point. She smiled nonetheless and she was beautiful, her red curls shining in the sun that came in through the kitchen window. There was a drop of milk on her cheek and he pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket. It looked like an offering, but he reached out and wiped the drop from her cheek. After it had been wiped away, his thumb lingered there for a moment on her skin. In a flash, it was pulled away.

This new behavior was a strange dance, like a bud on a plant, waiting to bloom. He had that strange spark of affection in his eye again and she turned, allowing the edge of her skirt to swish so the fabric brushed his ankle. If this was a dance, she would play at this game too. It took two to tango, after all.

At dinner that night, they ate in silence, as usual. It was delicious and he acknowledged this with a little noise between a grunt and a satisfied hum. He spoke rarely in words, but in movements, in sounds, in the little things he didn't say, it was then that he spoke volumes. They were in a strange new language, one that she was slowly learning to interpret, with many stumblings and failings.

After dinner she did the dishes, he wiped the table. They virtually ignored each other, as usual. But he came back to toss the dishrag into the sink, and she was blocking it. Without thinking or even hesitating, he reached around her and dropped the rag into the dishwater. His arms were on either side of her waist, and he leaned over her shoulder, his chin resting next to her collar.

"Dinner was good." His lips brushed her ear and she shivered. He was doing this on purpose; he had to be doing this on purpose. Was he tempting her? She didn't know, but she smiled and continued washing the dishes. Her mother had once told her that men loved a chase. She finished washing the pot and turned to face him; his arms trapped her against the sink. She did not feel like fighting it, she had wanted it for so long. Despite all this, she held herself back. She would not make the first move. She would not go back to being the woman that London had known, ready to throw herself forth for feeble imitations of love. His love. Or rather, his not-love.

She raised her eyebrows at him, expression mild. He blinked back at her, but he was sucking his lower lip, looking mildly thoughtful. Carefully, and with a great deal of gentleness, he leaned against her, and pressed his mouth against hers.

**Well here we are! After this, let's see what happens, shall we? Will Mr. Todd enjoy his first kiss with his wife? Will Mrs. Todd be able to control herself? What do you think? Give me your opinions on the story, your theories on the future, and most of all, REVIEWS! Until next time!**


	12. Flowering

Flowering

His mouth was warm and unexpectedly gentle. He kissed her with a great deal of care, like she was delicate as a soap bubble, ready to pop at any moment. Just as slowly and just as carefully, she moved her lips, kissing him back.

It was a strange dance, a careful little waltz in which each of them tried very hard not to scare or upset the other. It was like courting. It was like young love. It was like…nothing that Mrs. or Mr. Todd had ever truly experienced. It was _them_.

As carefully and gently as it had begun, it ended. He pulled his lips away and she reluctantly pulled back as well. He was smiling a little bit, a gentle curve of the lips. It was so out of character and out of place…but it suited him. The smile softened his harsh features into those of a kinder man.

"That was nice," she whispered.

"It was," he agreed.

They stood there, close to each other, just standing, looking at each other, studying the face of their spouse.

"Would you like to try it again?" he asked, his voice a hesitant whisper.

"Yes, I rather would."

So he put his arms around her waist, gently holding her. Her arms carefully reached up to wrap around his neck. Her finger traced a pattern on his cheek as her hand made its way to the back of his neck. His hair tickled her knuckles and she ran her fingers through it gently, relishing in the feel of it. Gently, he lowered his lips to hers again and they kissed, gently, quietly, carefully, by the kitchen sink in the moonlight.

It was soft and sweet, not asking or taking anything, merely trying out this new sensation. After a minute or two, he pulled away again and smiled. It was like he was a different person with that smile on.

"Sweeney?" she whispered,

"Nellie?" he replied.

"You're changing now, aren't you? You're not so angry anymore, you're making things…you're getting better."

"I think I am," he said.

"How's it feel?"

"It feels….right. Like this is how it ought to be."

"I'm going to go finish knitting that blanket now," she said softly, and unwrapped her arms from his neck.

"All right. I'm going to go finish whittling."

She sat on the back steps with a candle, staring out to sea as her knitting needles clicked rhythmically to the beat of the surf. It was quiet tonight, peaceful. It was the sort of night that plants came up, and in the silence, flowered 'fore the dawn.

Sweeney Todd sat down on the step beside his wife. His knee rested against hers. The careful scraping of wood joined the click of the needles and the rush of the surf and the soft whispering of the wind. It was a whispered symphony and it was the finest that Mrs. Todd had ever heard.

His knee was warm on hers, and as the moonlight lit her knitting and sparkled on the ocean, she wondered if this, whatever it was, could grow into love. It was said to grow slowly, but she wondered if in time, it could be. Tonight, under the moon and to the sound of their whispered symphony, anything seemed possible.


End file.
